Between the Lines
by prone2dementia
Summary: BEING REWRITTEN. An amnesic Yassen, a bewildered K-Unit, MI5, MI6, meth, bombs, gangs. And, of course, Alex. Not Crocodile Tears compliant, no pairings.
1. Chapter 1

_Beta'd by the amazing _Crowlows19_._

Between the Lines

* * *

_The paths have been crossed  
The crumbs are gone and the way, and the way is lost_

* * *

When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, it's never good news.

Alex Rider learned as much after the death of his uncle and was rightfully wary of guests who came knocking in the middle of the night. He'd never guessed, however, that he would also need to fear company in the middle of the day. Besides, in his meager fourteen years, he had seen and dealt with a lot: madmen who shouldn't have been allowed to play with guns... even madder men who shouldn't have been allowed to play with bombs... Tom Harris. Yet even the scope of Alex's experience couldn't have prepared him for the appearance of a certain assassin. Especially because the assassin was supposed to be dead.

Of course, Alex should have known better. In his upside-down world, it only made sense that dead people wouldn't stay dead.

"So what do you want?" he said bluntly, when he sensed that his visitor wasn't keen on initiating conversation.

Yassen Gregorovich sized Alex up for a moment, reticent, and Alex did likewise. Clad in dark jeans and a shirt, the man didn't appear particularly conspicuous. He still didn't belong here, though, thought Alex. Not amongst houses, families, _ordinary_ folk.

Yassen's eyes were piercing as he asked, "Is this the residence of an Alex Rider?"

Alex stared. Surely, this was a joke. Of all the things that Yassen could've said...

"Apparently not," the man answered himself and made to leave. That action ripped a response from Alex.

"Hold on – Yassen."

Turning back, the assassin blinked slowly. "Is that my name?"

It took all of Alex's discipline to keep his jaw hinged. _Was this really happening?_ he wondered. Could Yassen truly have forgotten his own name? Forgotten Alex?

"Isn't it?" Alex challenged.

"I'm... I don't know."

Confronted with Yassen's unthreatening demeanor, Alex felt his suspicions buzz angrily. "Then what do you call yourself?"

"Cossack."

"Why?"

"It's what I remember, and it feels right. However," the man acknowledged with a thoughtful tilt of his head, "Yassen feels right too."

"It's what you remember?" repeated Alex, dubious. "Are you suggesting—"

"Retrograde amnesia?" There was a small smile on Yassen's face. "Yes."

Alex couldn't recall Yassen being so straightforward. Then again, Yassen hadn't been the type to make a lot of fuss either, and Alex had barely known the man. Yassen could very well be lying now... except he didn't have a good motive. If he wanted to kill or use Alex, he wouldn't need to go to such lengths.

Before Alex could probe further, Jack's voice floated down the stairs. "Alex? Who's at the door?"

_Oh, just an assassin who learned under my dad, killed my uncle, but saved my life_. Alex could only imagine how well that response would go over.

A snap decision later, he called back, "It's Tom. Can I go to the park with him?"

"Have you finished your homework?"

"Jack, it's a Friday afternoon!"

"Fine." The American sounded reluctantly resigned. "Stay safe. Don't get hit by a car. And no drugs!"

Alex rolled his eyes before meeting Yassen's quietly amused gaze.

"Blatantly lying to your guardian?" asked the man.

Hiding his cringe, Alex reminded himself that white lies were for Jack's own good. "Of course." He affected nonchalance. "I'm a teenager. It's what we do."

He ducked into his entrance hall, searching underneath a mahogany stand, and Yassen peered in after him. "What are you looking for?"

_My football, but it seems a little thief named Tom has stolen it. Again_. But instead of voicing his musings aloud, Alex plucked out a rugby ball.

"If we run into someone that I know, I'll just tell them that I'm spending some time with my older half-brother."

Yassen nodded, and as they left, Alex surreptitiously checked for the presence of his mobile, key chain, and knife. The weapon would be nearly useless against larger, better-armed opponents, but carrying it still soothed his nerves.

"Did you come here on foot?" asked Alex, who recognized the careful way that the man was assessing their surroundings. It reminded Alex uncomfortably of himself.

"Yes."

"Were you followed?"

"No."

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

Yassen paused, leveling Alex with a contemplative look. He must have found what he was searching for because he replied a moment later.

"I won't tell you everything in exchange for nothing."

"Fair enough. You'll get your answers once I get mine."

The corners of Yassen's lips lifted slightly. "You're stubborn. That may cost you one day."

"As long as it isn't today..." Alex shrugged.

Yassen's smile turned wry, but he didn't comment. Eventually, he said, "My story's complicated. I'm not sure where to start."

"The beginning's always a good place."

Chuckling, the man said, "I think I like you, Alex Rider. But can I trust you?"

"That's a question you'll have to answer for yourself."

Yassen was quiet and appeared to be gathering his thoughts. Alex resisted the urge to rush him, instead focusing on the street ahead. There weren't many people about, but he knew that traffic would increase soon, the working population returning home from a long day. Briefly, his mind conjured up an image of Yassen as an accountant, and he bit back a smile.

"A few months ago," Yassen started at last, "I woke up in a cheap hotel room, not knowing where I was or who I was. At first, I didn't know what to do. I was paranoid and knew I had to stay hidden. I guessed I wasn't one of the 'good guys'."

Alex restrained himself from snorting in agreement.

"I started supporting myself through... various means..." Yassen trailed off, fixing Alex with an inquisitive stare.

"Yeah?"

Yassen shook his head. His voice stayed even, but something about his tone changed. "I hope you can keep a secret. If you betray me, you will regret it."

"I don't doubt that," said Alex with a lightness he didn't feel. He understood the gravity behind his own words and hoped he wasn't making a mistake.

Yassen's gaze was drilling into him. "Well, as I was saying, I started supporting myself. I sold drugs – meth."

Having expected Yassen to admit he was killing people again, Alex deemed that at least it could have been worse.

"Not the ordinary type," Yassen continued. "One hundred pounds per gram* and more toxic that you can imagine. It isn't the stuff that can be cooked up by junkies."

This was starting to sound like some nightmare concoction to Alex, and he said as much.

Yassen shrugged. "It's imported in by boat and ferried around by a group called Blacksmith. They masquerade as an average gang."

"Okay. And why are you telling me this?"

"Patience is a virtue, Alex."

"I'm not a particularly virtuous person," the boy rejoined.

If Yassen was annoyed, he didn't show it. "Recently, I noticed a different substance being trafficked in with the drugs. I had my suspicions and decided to tell someone. And that's where you came in."

"Me?"

Yassen nodded. "I might've had amnesia, but I still remembered a few names. I tried looking for them, but they couldn't be found, didn't exist, or were dead. Of course, there was also the portion that couldn't be bothered... It wasn't even easy to find information about you. That's why I hadn't known how old you were. Or rather how _young _you were."

Alex raised an eyebrow, his casual air belying the alarm bells sounding in his mind. He remembered Yassen from before; the man never stuck his nose in unnecessary places. Anything that managed to concern him must be serious. Moreover, Yassen knew he was a criminal and knew most of his contacts were criminals. It was unsettling to consider that he had taken time and effort to find assistance on the right side of the law.

"What is this other substance, exactly?"

Yassen laughed. "I believe I've said enough, Alex. It's your turn."

Sighing, Alex turned over the possible replies in his mind. They were at the park now, crossing onto a shaded patch of grass. The boy twirled his rugby ball idly as Yassen waited. Despite the earlier denouncement of his own virtues, Alex was more honorable than most. If Yassen had been telling the truth, then Alex was willing to reciprocate. The problem was, Alex _didn't _know if Yassen was being honest. He only had a gut instinct to trust the man and an inner voice that said he had an advantage: spotting lies was his specialty, but spinning lies was not Yassen's. And Alex wasn't going to learn anything if he didn't go out on a limb, was he?

Though if he was going to take the risk, he thought he might as well get a kick out of it. "Well," he said finally, "as far as I'm concerned, you're an assassin who learned under my dad, killed my uncle, but saved my life. And last time I checked, you were dead."

The man didn't respond at first, his body stiff and his face frozen. When he did speak, his comment was consciously light. "Sounds like a bad soap opera."

It seemed that Yassen was taking the news in good humor then; Alex was pleased in a surprised sort of way. "Yeah, I have television producers lined up to buy my life story." The man didn't reply immediately, so Alex took advantage of his silence: "Earlier you said you needed to tell someone about the other substance being shipped into England. How did you know it was dangerous?"

"I didn't know for sure. But I knew it had been brought in by a crime ring, and I had overheard some guards at the warehouse talking about it."

"How are you going to get the evidence?"

Yassen gave Alex a shrewd look. "I'd actually planned to bug the place tomorrow."

The words piqued Alex's curiosity, and in vain, he tried to douse his automatic flair of interest. Months had passed since his last mission, and he was itching for the adrenaline rush. MI6 had ruined him.

"Take me with you." The sentence spilled out before Alex could stop it, but he found himself unwilling to take it back.

"It's dangerous," said the Russian, his gaze doubtful.

Alex knew that, but he also knew what he wanted. And if he was truthful with himself, he wasn't ready to let Yassen disappear again. The man was a link to the past that he had yet to relinquish.

Meeting the man's eyes squarely, Alex made his decision. "I can take care of myself."

* * *

_Melancholy phantoms eye our skins  
Poison apples falling with the wind_

* * *

The briefing room was large and sober, closed in on all four sides by windowless walls. Fluorescent lighting served as the only source of illumination, and a long desk stretched the length of the room. A projector was set up at the head of it, aimed at the screen covering the front wall.

Facing the screen, a row of eight men stood at attention. Earlier, they had each been subjected to multiple fingerprint scans and identification checks. Now they were being addressed by a man and a woman, both clad in suits. The man was in his early thirties, the woman much older, appearing ageless with her severe bun and hard expression.

She was the one who spoke. "Gentlemen, your units were brought here today for an important assignment. You were the best that the SAS could offer, and I fully expect you to succeed. Our national security may very well hinge on your results."

In the line of SAS agents, one man couldn't help but think snidely, "_No pressure now_."

"I believe you are all familiar with the name Yassen Gregorovich?"

At her side, the man pressed a button on the remote he held. A picture of a fair-haired, blue-eyed male projected onto the screen. Nodding at the photograph, the woman continued.

"He was once considered one of the best assassins in the world, ruthless and in the employ of SCORPIA. Almost a year ago, he was discovered on Air Force One, near death. After a hospital stay, he was kept under maximum security until he somehow managed to escape. For a while, he disappeared completely from radar. Then we at MI5 spotted him on a number of security cameras across London.

The man took over. "Your task is to capture him. Do not underestimate his abilities. His presence has always been a red flag for large-scale criminal operations, and thus we were worried enough to call in the SAS." He paused, and every eye was fixed on him as he said emphatically, "Use any means that you deem necessary, but remember this: _We want him alive_."

* * *

_And the rangers stream  
Out of their cabins_

_

* * *

_

"No gang colors?"

Alex aimed an odd look at Yassen and then glanced back at his own apparel: jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt. "No."

"Weapon?"

For a moment, Alex was reluctant to admit his advantage, but he quickly reminded himself that Yassen wasn't the enemy. Not yet, at least. He nodded.

"Good," said Yassen simply.

They stepped into Westbourne Park Station together, and Alex scanned the passers-by for signs of danger. He hadn't felt this alert, alive, adrenaline pounding, since his last mission.

"Where are we heading?" He sent Yassen a sidelong glance.

"Hackney."

"What's in Hackney?"

Yassen surveyed the boy, carefully considering how much to reveal. "My associate."

Alex nodded his acknowledgment, and in silence, they each paid for their tickets. Once they reached the platform, Yassen spoke.

"I still don't know much about you."

_Let's keep it that way_, thought the boy, shrugging noncommittally.

Noting Alex's lack of response, Yassen said, "You're mature for your age, and I'm unsure of how much you know and how much you don't. This isn't some game, you realize?"

"Yeah." The word was nearly lost to the buzzing conversations around them.

Yassen's eyes were scanning the people on the platform, his voice almost inaudible as he said, "I'll be introducing you as Xander today, an orphan off the streets. Anonymity is key in this business, so I doubt we'll have to elaborate."

"What should I call you?"

"Cossack is fine."

It was the second time that Alex had heard the name, and he wondered about its origins. Instead of asking, though, he said, "Your associate—what's he like? Easily offended?"

"He's a worried man. Shouldn't be in this business at all. I'm a customer; he's a marketer. Our relationship doesn't extend further than that." Yassen spoke in vague terms, mere suggestions of how the underground trade was run.

The train arrived then, thundering into the station, and they boarded.

"His name?" asked Alex.

"Yang. British of Chinese descent."

"And does he know of the second substance?"

"Possibly, but he won't let on if he does."

"Because ignorance is a defense he can't afford to lose?"

The former assassin nodded, a surprised jerk of the head, but he didn't pursue the root of why Alex jumped immediately to a negative assumption. They elapsed into silence until a pre-recorded voice announced their arrival at Bethnal Green. There, the train coasted to a halt, the doors sliding open smoothly.

They were outside when Alex tackled his biggest concern. "So what is it? This other stuff?"

Yassen answered after a contemplative moment, "If you must know, bombs. Dirty bombs."

Bombs? Alex frowned. Unsure of how to reply, he settled on not saying anything at all. Yassen's candidness stumped him more than he wanted to admit, and he berated himself for focusing more on the man than the danger at hand.

He didn't have much experience with bombs, but he knew that dirty bombs were designed to contaminate a calculated area. Their construction could be crude—a stick of dynamite attached to radioactive material, like cesium-137 stolen from hospitals—or sophisticated enough to pollute a city for decades. Either way, their detonation would throw London into a fit of chaos, with panicked civilians clamoring for escape. Doubtlessly, the government would need to be informed.

Out in the streets, Alex trailed Yassen carefully. Though he'd lived in London his entire life, the boy had never ventured into this part of Hackney before. The contrast was stark, the buildings dilapidated, the air bleaker, and the people united by their wariness. As they traveled further, Alex noticed that the number of pedestrians decreased as the splashes of graffiti increased. An inverse proportion. His maths teacher would be proud.

"Hey!"

Alex frowned when he heard the shout, exchanging brief eye contact with Yassen.

"What ends you from, blud?"

In unison, the two turned around, their stances shifting to prepare for trouble. The streets were empty except for three teenagers behind them: a swarthy one with missing teeth, a tall one with diamond studs in his ears, and a fair-skinned one with... Alex stared, bowled by a burst of recognition.

"Sean?" He studied the boy in front of him. Backwards cap and scars. "What are you doing here?"

Sean stared back at Alex for an uncomfortable moment, until his gap-toothed friend took the initiative.

"Sean, you know this kid? Where from?"

When Sean couldn't compose a response, Alex supplied the answer. "School."

There was a pause before Sean's buddies burst out laughing. The one in earrings said, "Good one, bruv."

"Yeah, I dunno what you talking 'bout." Sean's attempt at confidence was ruined by his cagey demeanor, but Alex and Yassen were probably the only ones who noticed.

"That's right," defended Earring Boy. "Sean don't go to school!"

Alex just shrugged, smiling blandly.

"You gonna apologize?" Gap-Tooth shoved an accusatory finger into Alex's face, but the latter didn't flinch.

"For what?"

"For messing wiv us, bitch!" Sean seemed finally to have found his voice, and Alex thought the thugs were taking it a bit far now.

"I'm not messing with you."

"You be'er not be, or I'll knife you!"

"With what?" Alex couldn't keep the small smirk off his face. "This?"

The trio froze, eyes glued to the object in Alex's hands. Light glinted off the blade that had, moments ago, been tucked safely into Sean's belt; Alex had experienced little trouble securing the weapon. Already distracted, the thugs had been completely oblivious to his sleight of hand.

"You—" Sean swore angrily, then threw a punch.

Alex sidestepped with ease, catching Sean's arms and twisting them behind the other boy's back, causing him to pitch over in pain. It was a move Alex had learned in his first year of karate, and he was rather fond of it**.

"I know you failed biology," Alex said companionably as he pressed the knife to Sean's neck, "so let me explain. This is your carotid artery. If I cut you here, you'll die quickly of blood loss. You don't want that, right?"

"No," Sean choked out. He was gulping, his breaths coming in short, fearful pants.

"Good." Alex released none too gently—glad to be rid of the sweaty odor that clung to Sean—and sent the boy tumbling to the ground. "Please leave before I change my mind."

As if they'd finally come to their senses, Sean's companions snapped out of their shock and quickly helped him up. They took off together and soon disappeared into an alleyway.

"Impressively handled," said Yassen, amused.

Alex looked up. "With no help from you."

"I would've stepped in if you needed it, but this was a way to see what you were capable of."

Scoffing, Alex ignored the statement. "Are we at your suppliers yet?" He was aware that they had reached a row of forlorn warehouses, each identical to the one beside it.

"This way."

Alex followed the man down a debris-littered passage between two of the structures. They stopped in front of a nondescript metal door.

"Here?" asked Alex, running his eyes over the gray walls. He automatically noted the escapes and hazards.

"Yes."

"It looks... empty."

"Don't be deceived. This place is constantly manned by guards." Leaning closer to Alex, Yassen murmured, "Follow my lead, and don't let yourself be taken by surprise."

Alex didn't answer, merely watched as Yassen knocked a castanet sequence against the door. After a few moments, it opened a crack, and nervous dark eyes peered out at them.

"Cossack. Company?"

With a curt nod, Yassen pushed Alex forward. "This is Xander. I'm showing him the ropes."

There was a pause as the eyes flitted back and forth between the two, deliberative. Then the man allowed them entrance.

Finding himself in a small corridor, Alex blinked hard to adjust to the dim lighting. He felt vaguely claustrophobic, surrounded on both sides by scratched and scuffed walls. Yang—at least Alex assumed he was Yang—was already darting away.

After an uninteresting stretch of hallway, they passed two rooms. One had a heavy steel barrier; the other was doorless and abandoned. _How odd_, thought Alex, _that one entrance would be secured while the other was left unguarded_. He wondered whether something was being hidden behind that door, and a quick glance at Yassen, who gave a small nod, confirmed his suspicions.

They continued until they reached an old office. Yang prodded his customers inside before following. The room had no chairs, only a battered desk in the center, and the grimy window in the back was too small to serve as an exit. Alex stifled his frown, returning his attention back to the adults.

"How much money do you have?" Yang was asking.

Yassen pulled out a wad of bills. "Eight hundred pounds."

"How much do you want this time? One ounce?"

Yassen shrugged. "That means I pay back fifteen hundred?"

"Eighteen hundred."

"Sixteen," scowled the Russian.

"No use arguing with me, Cossack." Yang spread both hands in a placating gesture. "I don't write the rules. Besides, you still earn a thousand pounds in profit."

"Fine."

Alex watched as Yang bowed out of the room. "Where's he going?"

"To get the meth. It'll take him approximately five minutes, and I plan to use the time wisely. Watch my back." And he was gone.

Alone now, Alex was finally able to sort through his thoughts. His mind kept jumping back to the two rooms they'd passed. No doubt, Yassen would be bugging the locked one, but something about the other one—the barren one—bothered Alex. He dredged up a mental image of it. The outer perimeters had been cast in shadows, too dark for him to see. A layer of dust had blanketed the floor.

Except...

Slanting to the right, there had been a path, approximately half a meter wide, where the cement was exposed to the air, clear of dust as if it had been trod often...

Before Alex could ponder it, Yassen was back, appearing as composed as ever. "Did you see anyone?"

"Other than you? No." Then Alex addressed a prior concern, one he hadn't mentioned earlier because Yassen hadn't seemed worried: "Are there cameras in here?"

"No. Blacksmith is too cheap and too confident. They think a few guards are enough to protect the warehouse. And that may have been so..."

"Until you showed up," finished Alex. "I haven't seen any guards around."

"Take that as a good sign."

Yang arrived a minute later, bustling in, and Alex scrutinized his face for evidence that he suspected something. But there was no change in expression. He didn't appear more nervous than he had before.

"Here you go, Cossack." He handed a small opaque package to Yassen, and the latter tucked it into his jacket.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Yang."

* * *

*Ordinary meth sells for £35-£75/gram, though the value may fluctuate due to inflation/deflation.

**Shameless author self-insert here.

Lyrics (the italicized words before scenes) are from Rangers, by A Fine Frenzy.


	2. Chapter 2

Being rewritten. Thanks for the patience!


	3. Chapter 3

Being rewritten. Thanks for the patience!


End file.
